Six years have already passed since my friend went away from me, with his sheep.
If I try to describe him here, it is to make sure that I shall not forget him.
To forget a friend is sad.
Not every one has had a friend.
And if I forget him, I may become like the grown-ups who are no longer interested in anything but figures...
It is for that purpose, again, that I have bought a box of paints and some pencils.
It is hard to take up drawing again at my age,
when I have never made any pictures except those of the boa constrictor from the outside and the boa constrictor from the inside, since I was six.
I shall certainly try to make my portraits as true to life as possible.
But I am not at all sure of success.
One drawing goes along all right, and another has no resemblance to its subject.
I make some errors, too, in the little prince's height: in one place he is too tall and in another too short.
And I feel some doubts about the color of his costume.
So I fumble along as best I can, now good, now bad, and I hope generally fair-to-middling.
In certain more important details I shall make mistakes, also.
But that is something that will not be my fault.
My friend never explained anything to me.
He thought, perhaps, that I was like himself.
But I, alas, do not know how to see sheep through the walls of boxes.
Perhaps I am a little like the grown-ups.
I have had to grow old.